


Some Christmas

by alafaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas; John's bruised his shin, Sherlock has a cold. Some holiday. Still, it could be worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day twelve of the advent challenge at the livejournal community of the same name. Prompt "sick/broken bones".

Sherlock looked away from his microscope and the slide of mold--collected from the edge of the Thames some miles away--when he heard what sounded like John dressing. It was Sunday--the clinic was closed, there was no case, there was milk in the fridge and tea in the tin. He knew that sometimes the clinic got together and played soccer against another clinic, but it was below zero out and there was a severe frost on the ground. If John went out...

"Where are you going?" he yelled.

John came into the kitchen, kited out. "Game today. I marked it on the calendar."

"Dull," Sherlock muttered. "There's a frost on the ground--there'll be more injuries than goals."

"We've been out in worse." John grabbed his coat. "Don't wait up."

As though Sherlock ever did. He listened for the front door and turned back to his microscope.

~~~

"Fuck!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his concentrating sliding from his book to the unmistakable sounds from the hallway. He set aside the book and walked to the doorway. He saw John sitting on the stairs, back against the wall. "What happened?"

John glared at him. "This is your fault! We _have_ been out in worse weather and without a single injury. You tell me today there will be and now I've got a bum leg!" He paused. "Again!"

Sherlock bounded down to his flatmate and reached a hand out. "May I?"

John shuffled away. "No." He crossed his arms. "It's not broken--just bruised. The other player was aiming for the ball, but slipped and hit my leg."

"How long will it take to heal?" Sherlock asked. Though he didn't need John with him on cases, it was...difficult without John. His flatmate was great at saying the opposite of what was wrong, but it helped Sherlock to focus and find the right path.

"You can do without me for a while," John said. "Take your skull."

Sherlock huffed. "I told you the skull attracts attention."

"You'll be fine," John said. "They think you're a weird one anyone. Besides, if you take the skull, you won't be hit on. No one hits on someone talking to a skull."

Sherlock considered that for a full three seconds before dismissing the idea as _not useful_. He stood and offered his hand. "Come on. We'll get you on the sofa and I'll get you an ice pack."

~~~

Sherlock shuddered in soaked coat as he entered 221. Though he hated to loose it, he hung the coat on the hook in the hall where it dripped nicely into the tray Mrs. Hudson had set there. He sat on the stairs and removed his shoes. He thought about getting up, but decided that it was nicer on the stairs. Matter of fact, it would be nice to sleep here. He was tired and the swim in the Thames today had been exhausting.

"What the--get up, you idiot!"

He mumbled. Whoever that was--it sounded like John, but Sherlock couldn't tell with his mind foggy as it was--tried to lift him up. Didn't they understand he just wanted to sleep?

"Mrs. Hudson!"

~~~

When Sherlock woke up, he was under several quilts, sweating, in his chair by a roaring fire. He looked around. "John." The other man didn't stir. "John!"

John jerked away, hand lifting as though it had a gun. Or needed one. "Wh--oh, Sherlock. Thank god. I didn't think--your temperature wasn't going up."

"I'm boiling now," Sherlock said. He peeled away some of the blankets that John then took and folded. Under the one, Sherlock realized he was naked. "At least tell me you hung them up."

John looked confused for only a moment before his face cleared. "Right. Yeah. I hung them up in the bathroom. Didn't touch them otherwise. I did call the dry cleaners, however. They'll pick them up in two days."

"Why not tomorrow?" Sherlock asked. He wondered what it would take to get John to make some tea. He could really use some now.

"Christmas, Sherlock? Remember?" He patted his leg. "Some pair we make--me with my bruised leg and you with a cold on the war after your stunt in the Thames."

Sherlock dispised the holiday. It was too quiet, making his work difficult, and the shops were rarely open. He sniffed. "Could be worse."

"How?"

"We could be with Mycroft."

John nodded. "Or my sister."

Sherlock smirked. "So how about a cup of tea?"

"A meal fit for a king?" John sighed. "I have a ham if you feel like eating something for the holiday."

"Just tea."

John laughed. "As ever."


End file.
